


the road less traveled by (and the mountains we must climb)

by summerssnow



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-26
Updated: 2017-06-01
Packaged: 2018-11-05 07:27:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11008758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/summerssnow/pseuds/summerssnow
Summary: Arya Stark was never the kind of person that other people understood that easily, but Gendry Waters had never been much like other people.Perhaps that was why they loved and hated one another so.A Modern AU





	1. we walk in circles

**Author's Note:**

> I was bored and had this aching feeling in my chest to write something, and this idea was what came out.

“No.”

“But --”

“I will _not_ ,” Arya insisted, arms crossed over her chest defiantly. When she wanted to be, she was unmovable as a mountain and hard headed as stone, and there was no one who could sway her to behave otherwise. In this, she could and would not be swayed. Especially not at the evil hour of six in the morning.

“It’s just a dress, Arya,” Sansa sighed, running her hand down the silky smooth cotton lovingly, as if it were her oldest friend. Then again, Sansa had a taste for fine things, both purchased and made from her own hand. She made a lot from her own hand, especially once she’d convinced their father to loan her the money so that she could open her own clothing shop. As she looked down on the navy shift dress that had been laid so carefully upon her unmade bed, she couldn’t deny that Sansa had done fine work with this one. It was feminine and light to the touch, and it wasn’t cut too short at the bottom or too low in the neck. Even the silver pattern that traced down the left side of it was lovely and somehow wild at the same time.

But it made sense, since Sansa had made it specifically with Arya in mind.

“I don’t wear dresses,” Arya protested, “that was the whole reason why I denied your offer to be in the wedding in the first place.”

“You agreed to be my backup bridesmaid if I ended up needing one, and with Jeyne’s situation, I need you to be my maid of honor. You knew that would require you wearing a dress. I even made you one that you would feel comfortable and look nice wearing. Arya,” Sansa reached for her sister’s hands, clasping Arya’s between her own and falling to her knees, “I’ll even beg, if you’d like me to.”

It was pathetic, really, looking down at her elder sister looking back up at her as if the whole of her life depended on Arya saying yes. What was more pathetic was how much Arya was enjoying the desperation in her sister's eyes and expression. She often liked to think that she wasn't a cruel person, but there was an undeniable satisfaction in knowing that, for once in her life, it was she who held the power in their relationship and not Sansa.

Though, she did suppose that since Sansa was only a day away from holding the wedding she’d dreamed of since she was a young girl, there was absolutely no way that she wouldn’t be desperate.

The dress _was_ quite fine, she supposed, and it wouldn’t really hurt for her to have to stand at the front instead of being seated alongside their brothers, with the exception of Robb, who would stand for her to-be brother-in-law. She’d never been able to sit still anyway, and at least then there was no way that anyone could say she wasn’t in support of the marriage. Even though she wasn’t; not fully, at least. But Sansa was happy, and she was ready to be married, and with a husband around Arya supposed there was very little left that Sansa could ask of her. Would it really be so awful to do her this one last favor, when Sansa hardly ever asked anything of her in the first place? Besides, Jeyne’s sudden illness and being bedridden because of complications with her pregnancy wasn't really something that Sansa should have to suffer for. 

“If I do this, you have to promise that you will not reprimand me for anything and that you won’t ever ask me to do anything like this for you again. I also will not give a heartfelt speech.”

Sansa’s eyes had widened in excitement, her head nodding in agreement so often that Arya feared it would fly right off of her neck, “I promise! Robb's speech is bound to take up more time than planned for anyway, and I’ll be too busy to truly care about what you’re doing.”

Arya snorted as if she didn't believe her, “Fine.”

“Thank you!” Sansa jumped to her feet and wrapped her arms around Arya’s neck so tightly that she feared she would not be able to catch her breath ever again. “I've got to call mother and tell her the good news. I'll see you tonight at the rehearsal and dinner,” she was positively beaming, her hands shaking with excitement.

Arya found herself shaking her head, trying not to smile at her sister's childish happiness. She couldn't help it, though; it had been a long time since there had been reason to celebrate in the Stark family. What truly made her laugh, however, was Sansa’s delightful greeting to Arya’s roommate before the door closed definitively behind her, her humming and light footsteps replaced with thundering ones that didn't stop until the couch creaked in the next room.

Sansa would not have been so cheerful if she would have walked into the living room to see a dirty boy sprawled out on the couch she'd gifted Arya when she'd moved into the apartment as Arya did minutes later. She didn't bother to say hello or chastise the boy for his lack of refinery or manners, though she did chuck a stray shoe that he had kicked off right in the middle of the slim pathway into the kitchen after she'd tripped on it.

Stupid bull-headed boy.

He didn't do much more than grunt and flip her off with the hand that rested on his stomach.

“Work went that well, huh?” She questioned as she opened the nearest cupboard, which was so pitifully empty that she scoffed and slammed it shut. After looking through the cupboards where she knew she hadn't placed her groceries and still coming up empty, she sighed, “Where did all the granola bars disappear to?”

There was no answer to either of her questions, so she stepped around the half wall that lead to the living area of her apartment only to see that he had nearly fallen asleep. Annoyed, she stomped out of the kitchen and to the sofa where he lay, throwing all of her weight into the jump and landing hard on his stomach. He grunted and lost his breath, but said nothing as his face contorted and pushed her off of him with the ease of a giant moving a feather. It was infuriating.

“What happened to all the food I bought last weekend?”

“Must've ate it,” he muttered the words so slow that, had she not been used to it, she wouldn't have heard it. He adjusted his position so that his face was buried in the back of the couch instead of facing upwards, a sign that he was sure to fall asleep any moment.

She smacked him hard for it, “Gendry!”

“Stop shouting at me,” he snarled.

“Stop eating all my food and not replacing it,” she smacked his arm again for emphasis, “or I'll find a roommate who doesn't act like they're a damn barbarian.”

He _harrumphed_ , but otherwise ignored her threat.

“Clean up and go buy some groceries, Waters, I know you can't be that tired. Unless you went to work after drinking again, which is your own damn fault if that's the case.”

“I work nights, when else am I going to drink?” He asked, surly as ever.

She rolled her eyes, “On your nights off. Now get up, I need a ride to work anyway, so it’ll be a perfect time for you to go get those groceries you owe me.”

In all their years of friendship, Arya had never been one to pick and pester him about his habits or his moods, but sometimes she wanted to smack him hard in the head with the baseball bat they kept in the closet for protection. She was as stubborn as anyone could expect from the rebel daughter of Ned and Catelyn Stark, but for as stubborn as she was, Gendry was three times more so. Sometimes she hated him for it, but it didn’t matter. He was her closest and most trusted friend, the only person outside of her family who didn’t care what her name was or the fact that she had decided to not take up a place at her father’s firm. Hell, she hadn’t even gone to college.

He was one of the few who had never thrown that in her face, the only person who understood that she had to make her own way and figure out what she wanted as she went along, even if it sometimes infuriated him. Sure, her family had the money to send her through university twelve times over if she wished, but she didn’t find any need for that. If and when she decided to go back to school, it would be solely her choice, and she wanted to know what she wanted to spend her life doing if she decided to do so. She knew that it broke her mother’s heart that she was “wasting” her intelligence by not going back to school as she had been expected to, but her mother had different wants for her. Her mother wanted her to be like Sansa, and she simply couldn’t be.

There was no harm in hard work, her father had always told her, which was why he had never judged her for denying to take any money from him and working a job that barely paid enough to cover the monthly bills. He had known his daughter far too well to think that she wanted or needed help from anyone to get along perfectly well, and like Gendry, he understood that Arya needed to find her own path and that once she did, she’d follow it without regrets forcing her to look back.

It had been easy for her elder brother and her sister to do what was expected of them, because that had been what they’d wanted all of their lives. Robb had taken over the firm the year before, and Sansa was doing so well with her business even after three years had gone by that there was no way she would ever need help again, even paying the debt she’d owned to their father back to her mother with interest. Bran had nearing the end of his schooling and in two years time would make an excellent teacher somewhere, and Rickon was just happy to be playing football and learning as much as he could. Partying as much as he could, as well, which she was sure everyone expected but he was smart enough not to get caught and kicked off the team for it. For that, their father wouldn’t have pulled any strings, so neither would their mother.

She missed him deeply.

She thought of him as she pulled her hair into a knot at the top of her head, looking in the mirror to see his face staring back at her. She looked so much like him that it scared her sometimes, though her manner was nothing like his had been. He’d let her be herself, though, loving his wild daughter as truly as he loved the rest of his children, never scolding her when she made herself sick by spinning to long and too quickly in his office chair and laughing when she came home with dirt and cuts and bruises painted on her skin.

Perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad to take a page out of Gendry’s book. A drink sounded like the perfect solution to drown the sorrows that had made her heart feel so heavy once again.

\------------------------------------------------------

There was absolutely nothing spectacular about caregiving, but Arya didn't hate it as much as she thought she would have when she'd first been offered the job. She wasn't a particularly compassionate or patient person like the job required her to be, but there was free food to eat and the four elderly people she cared for didn't require much tending to, so she didn't mind. She was mostly there to offer companionship and to take care of their personal needs, but most of the time she wasted away her day sitting on the couch with her charges if there wasn't extra cleaning to do and no one wanted to play checkers or go for a walk in the gardens. There were the odd few days when the job was difficult, when the behaviors were bad and no one could be pleased or wanted her help in things that they desperately needed help with, or the days when someone came down sickly and she had to take close care of them should they pass away. 

Those were the hardest days, when a resident was lost. There were always warnings not to become too close, but it was hard to not develop a close bond with someone you spent half your days caring for.

At least she hadn't had one of those days in a long while.

Still, she was more than glad when the clock struck three and the next set of caregivers came in to relieve her and her coworker, Mycah. The knowledge that she had the next three days away from her sometimes emotionally charged job made her feel more free than she dared to admit aloud. Despite the fact that her weekend would be full of things that she would rather not deal with, it was always nice to get a break from work.

“You're coming to the dance tomorrow night, right?”

“There'll be free alcohol?” Mycah asked, and when she nodded he grinned, “then I'll see you there.”

She rolled her eyes at the finger guns he pointed her way before he jumped into his car and started her walk home. Bran had promised to pick her up around six for the rehearsal and rehearsal dinner so that she didn't have to walk in the rain that had been promised that evening. Already the clouds had turned a dark, threatening grey in the sky above, and all she hoped was that it didn't start raining down on her as she walked. 

As luck would have it, the rain started coming down when only a block remained of her twelve minute journey home, and she was barely wet by the time she reached her building. By the time she made it up the four floors to her apartment, however, the rain was beating down mercilessly, the windows of her apartment becoming blurry. She could hear music from behind the closed door of Gendry’s bedroom, and when she went to look in the cupboards she found that not only had he replaced what he'd eaten, he'd packed two more cupboards so fully that she dared not move anything in fear that it would all tumble out at her. And he'd left a package of chocolate chip cookies on the counter for her. A smile creeped onto her lips at the sight.

She ate the cookies with a glass of juice, and when it was all gone and she could hear Gendry moving about inside of his bedroom, she made her way to his door. She didn't bother knocking, nor did she care that he was in nothing but his shorts, smoking a cigarette, an open beer held in his hand and nodding his head to the beat of the music. He was a mess, really, she didn't particularly like the fact that he smoked in his room, but she'd never complained as long as the window was open and he didn't smoke anywhere else in the house.

“Sleep well?”

“Well enough,” he replied, clearly in a better mood than he had been that morning. He never spoke too very much, but the less he mumbled the more enjoyable he was to speak with, “did you have a good day at work?”

She shrugged, taking the beer out of his hand and taking a drink. It was warmer than she liked, “It was fine. Thanks for getting groceries.”

He hummed, taking the beer she offered back to him and finishing it off, throwing it into the bin at his bedside. They didn't speak until the song ended and the next one began, not until he put the cigarette out in the ashtray on his window sill and stood up.

“Bran’s picking me up at six for the wedding rehearsal.”

He grunted and moved around her, “Glad it's you and not me who has to go.”

He was more than a head taller than she was, his shoulders broad and his skin tanned despite the fact that he never seemed to go out into the sun, and his black hair was nearly too long for her personal taste. But he was handsome still, his bright blue eyes hazy and brimming with red. Handsome, quiet, stubborn, and lonely, that was Gendry.

“You could come, you know. I'm sure your company would be appreciated.”

He shot her a look that told her just how untrue he thought that statement was and plucked a shirt off of a hanger from his open closet without looking or caring that the hanger fell to the ground, “No thanks.”

She knew that he still felt awkward around the rest of her family, knew that he didn't quite know what to say. The Starks had grown up with money and power, and Gendry had been raised by his poor mother for the first part of his childhood, bounced around in the foster system for the rest of it. He liked her family well enough and they liked him well enough, too, but no one ever really seemed to know what to talk about to keep him included in the conversation. The only person he seemed to never feel awkward around was Jon, who was the only reason he'd agreed to go to the wedding the next day for. At least then he would have someone to talk to all night if Arya ended up busy.

“I'll bring some leftovers home from the dinner, then.”

“You don't have to, I'm going out.”

Her gut twisted and she tried to keep the judgment from clouding her expression, “I thought you weren't doing poker on fridays anymore.”

He turned back to her and sighed, his eyes clearly telling her not to start up with the subject again. She wanted to fight and rage with him about it, about everything that had turned wrong between them over the past months, but she could see just how tired he was. So instead of giving herself a headache, she crossed her arms over her chest and walked away.

She didn't know if she could take another fight with him, anyway. She didn't know if their friendship, once so strong and unmovable, could bare the weight of it.

He left before she could gather her clothes from her room and make it back to the bathroom, and she couldn't help the sinking feeling in her chest that had become a constant companion in the absence he'd left her in that seemed to only become more and more noticeable with each passing day.

She wanted to hate him for pulling away from her so easily, but she couldn't bring herself to, not when her heart insisted on screaming the truth.


	2. deny, deny, deny

Gendry never liked to admit when he was hungover, but Arya could always see it in his face. His skin drained of color and his eyes only opened half way, and she would always sigh and get him a large glass of water to drink down and something to help with his headache before she resigned herself to making breakfast. She rarely cooked at all, and the only reason she made breakfast when he was hungover was because eggs and toast were the only things he ever seemed to be able to keep down, and he was even more useless in a kitchen than she was. She was a good friend that way, though he never thanked her outright. In a few days time she would come home to him having ordered in from her favorite Thai place and invite her to watch a movie on the couch with him, and that would be more than enough of a thanks for her.

Gendry wasn't one for grand gestures of appreciation or affection, but at least he tried his best. Even though the two of them hadn't been standing on solid ground for a while, he still tried his damnedest to make sure that she knew he appreciated her, and she did too. Sometimes the doubts that consumed her faded, and things between them almost felt like they once had. 

Eventually, though, his wall always came back up and struck her so hard under the chin that it sent her reeling. No matter how much time passed, she could never truly figure him out.

The distance between them on the morning of Sansa’s wedding felt so absolute in her heart that it left a taste of copper on her tongue despite the fact that he ate his breakfast with her at the table and placed a kiss on her head in thanks when he'd finished. He made his way back to his room to sleep for a while, promising that he'd be back up in time to get ready and make it to the wedding with time to spare. She didn't particularly believe that, since he'd always had a bad habit of being late to everything, but she allowed him to go while she dressed in something comfortable and grabbed her things to go to Jon’s.

Her heart did not feel heavy for long that morning, for as soon as she walked through the door of Jon and Val’s home, the atmosphere that surrounded her immediately lifted her spirits. Jon, Val, and her aunt Lyanna were the sort of people she enjoyed spending her days around, the people she wished she could spend her every day around. They brought laughter to her lips even when she sat down in a chair to have Lyanna help her with her hair and makeup, which to her was a horrible thing. It was only made better by the company she held and the wine they drank together, sharing a celebration of their own before they ever reached the ceremony.

If Sansa caught wind of her drinking before the wedding, Arya would surely be skinned alive.

When the time came for her to dress and ready herself to leave, Arya couldn't help but sigh as though she had been defeated in some sort of game. She was not the sort of person who enjoyed getting dressed up and trying to be pretty, mostly because even when she looked her best, she still never quite felt as if she were pretty enough. It didn't matter how many times people she loved insisted otherwise. Besides, she always felt uncomfortable in anything other than jeans and a t-shirt, or anything she could get dirty in. 

Her father had always told her that she was beautiful, that she reminded him of Lyanna. She didn't understand it, didn't see what he meant. Sure, they both had the Stark look, but her aunt turned heads even in her forties, and Arya was all but invisible. She'd heard Jon chastise Sansa once when he was piss drunk that she was the reason why Arya had never been able to see how lovely she really was because of how much torment she'd been dealt as a child by Sansa and her friends, and perhaps that had been true. Yet, it was difficult to not feel inferior to her strikingly beautiful, undeniably intelligent elder sister. Even if she and Sansa hadn't spent their entire childhoods all but hating one another, those facts would still hold true.

But Lyanna gasping at the sight of Arya in her dress and fawning over how wonderful she looked helped her ego more than she liked to admit. She'd needed to place her worth on more than her looks, but it was nice to feel as if she didn't need to for once. The dress did look wonderful on her, she had dared to admit it while she turned every which way in the mirror while Lyanna and Val whispered behind her. It was fitting enough to show off the few curves she had acquired in her womanhood, yet not uncomfortable enough that she felt the need to tug at it. She even dared to admit that the slight flare at the bottom of the dress made her want to spin around in circles, and when she did she was glad to see that the dress didn't show off anything that would make her feel less modest. 

Best of all, the dress covered just below her knees. She'd always hated her knees.

Jon was the one to escort her into the church, assuring her that she looked beautiful and reminding her that all she really had to do was stand at the front of the church and hold a couple bouquets, and perhaps smile a bit. 

Why her sister and Willas had decided to only have one person stand for them each, she didn't know. They'd put so much money into making the church look so unbelievably lavish that she didn't doubt they could have spared the money to have a few extra people standing beside them on their wedding day, but she had never asked, nor had she asked why Willas had decided not to have one of his own brother's stand for him instead of Robb. Arya was many things, but she had learned how to hold her tongue at last. Far too many years late, of course, but the courtesy had finally sunk in.

Willas was the first to greet her when she walked down the stairs to where the families of the bride and groom were mingling with one another. He was seated, his cane propped against one of the many tables, and he thanked her once again for stepping in to stand up for Sansa in Jeyne’s place. He had seemingly thanked her a hundred times the night before at the rehearsal, but she acknowledged him as politely as she could, told him that it was her pleasure, and was escorted off a minute later by Margaery to get a rose pinned to her dress and her bouquet placed in her hands. Margaery fussed over Arya’s hair while Arya wished she could be over by Rickon and Bran, who were tossing balls against the far wall and laughing before Margaery sent her off to the room where Sansa and her mother were waiting.

When she walked into the room where Sansa was hidden away, she nearly lost her breath. If she looked beautiful, Sansa was nothing short of a goddess in her dress of white and gold, even while she looked as if she were about to pass out from nerves. Their mother sat next to her, whispering comforts in her ear, sparing Arya an appreciative smile.

Sansa was visibly trembling, her fingers jumping in a way that Arya had never seen. She ghosted them over her perfectly pinned up hair, over her neck and her gown and back again. Her red painted lips were trembling too, almost as if she had something she wanted to say but couldn't bring herself to do so. Arya remembered back to the day Jon and Val had married, how Jon’s nerves had him close to throwing up in the restroom, and she sighed. Was Sansa truly suffering from nerves?

“Sansa,” she spoke gently, her hands reaching for her sisters and tugging them down with a soft touch. Her sister reacted by grasping her tightly, her terrified blue eyes finding Arya’s, “you're going to make yourself sick. What a shame that would be, being sick all over your beautiful dress.”

Sansa huffed out a laugh while their mother looked at Arya as if she had grown another head, and Arya smiled despite Catelyn’s obvious disapproval. Sansa's grip on her hand didn't loosen, but she breathed out a slow, shaky breath that told Arya her words had somehow sunk into her sister's head. “Don't be rude,” Sansa chastised after a few moments.

“Not rude, just honest,” she corrected in return.

Silence fell over the three Stark women, though they could hear voices and footsteps from overhead of people piling into the church for the ceremony, and Margaery giving orders from the other room for people to get ready to get into place. A look at the clock told her that there was fifteen minutes until showtime, and Arya cut her eyes to her mother and nodded, letting her know that she had a handle on the situation and that Catelyn should go get ready to go as well.

Her mother kissed Sansa and whispered something Arya couldn't hear before she stood, placed a kiss on Arya's cheek as well, and left.

Once the door closed behind their mother, Arya dropped the bag she'd slung over her shoulder onto the ground, “There's a flask in there if you need something to calm your nerves.”

Sansa rolled her eyes, a smile peeking out at the corner of her lips, and looked away from her sister. A few moments of silence passed before Sansa turned her eyes to Arya’s bag. “What’s in it?” She inquired.

Arya chuckled and sat down in the chair next to her sister, “I'm not sure. Aunt Lya stuffed it in my bag when she thought I wasn't looking, so you know it's the good stuff, at least.”

“Go on, then,” Sansa decided, looking as if she were still unsure of the idea, “my last official drink as a single woman.”

“You haven't been a single woman for five years,” Arya pointed out, opening her bag and digging out the silver flask. She twisted off the cap and sniffed, handing it over to Sansa while schooling her face into not giving anything away. It smelled stronger than the drinks she'd had at Jon's beforehand, but if she said so to Sansa there would be no end to Sansa’s annoyance. Sansa drained what was left of her water glass and poured a small amount of the alcohol into the bottom of it, handing the flask back to Arya and raising her own, “To your next adventure.”

Sansa didn't so much as flinch when she drowned the contents of her glass.

\----------------------------------------------

Arya would have been a liar if she said that the wedding wasn't beautiful enough that she actually had to hold back a few happy tears when all was said and done, but there was a sadness, as well. Her father's presence was felt when her mother walked Sansa down the aisle and throughout the ceremony. There was even a moment of silence and a photo placed near the front of the church in his memory. It hurt her heart, and she knew that it hurt Sansa’s as well, that he was not there on such an important day.

Arya avoided the head table once she was officially released from having to sit through the meal and speeches, opting to spend her time at a table with Jon, Val and Rickon while the rest of the people she knew mingled, listening to the stories of Jon and Val’s recent travels that filled her with envy. She peppered Jon and Val with questions until she felt as if she had been there, too. She'd always wanted to travel, had even planned a trip with Gendry back in their first year as roommates, but it had never come to fruition. One day, she had promised herself, though that day felt further and further away with each passing day and each dwindling dollar in her bank account.

The reception hall was large and impeccably decorated, and it stayed so even when half of the tables had been moved to make more room for people to dance. Gendry, who had stayed close to her, Jon, and the people he was most comfortable around as much as possible, had been pulled onto the dance floor against his will by one of Willas’s cousins. Arya had half a mind to go fetch him and save him from further torture (he hated dancing, but was too polite to excuse himself), but the fear of getting stuck on the dance floor herself kept her from doing so. At least she had the decency to send him an apologetic smile every time he looked at her with pleading eyes.

She was glad when Bran joined in the fray, having grown bored of the conversations taking place around her. Somehow they had gotten on the topic of sports, which she enjoyed well enough, until Rickon started telling stories about his college football experiences this far. Somehow, inserting Rickon into any topic usually made her lose interest. She loved her littlest brother, to be sure, but his stories often came along with much gloating, and she had no time for it. And though Bran didn't do much to contribute to the conversation or do anything to engage Arya in any other way, watching him gave her enough to think about.

Bran was in _love_. He'd never admit it aloud, not when it had been such a small amount of time that he'd been seeing someone, but she could see it in his face. He went moony-eyed whenever his love came into sight, his cheeks reddening and a smile forming on his usually too-serious face. She wished he would just come out with it and tell her who it was that he was seeing, but he made sure that every look he gave was in the direction of a crowd, so she couldn't ever quite make out who it was that he was looking at.

Rickon had been teasing him about it for weeks, she knew, pointing at every mildly attractive woman or man who came into sight and trying to wrestle the secret out of him to no avail. Bran complained about it often, but Arya only laughed. Yes, she was curious, but at the end of the day it didn't matter who it was. The only thing that mattered to her was that Bran was happy.

And that, hopefully, he'd had the sense not to go falling for some Tyrell like their sister had done.

It wasn't that the Tyrell family was made up of bad people, because she didn't think that they were, but they always seemed to be scheming, always seemed to be watching and waiting for their moment to come. What that moment was, she never knew. She'd avoided them all as much as possible. Willas was the best of them, she supposed, a good man with a good heart who obviously cared deeply for her sister, and Arya had softened to him for it. The rest of his family, however, she knew she would never be willing or able to trust as far as she could throw them. There was something too cunning about their kindness.

Arya preferred people who didn't always seem to have a second agenda, people who were honest and open. And in truth, she feared that she may have been reading too far into things for far too long, but she'd always been that way with the people who kept company with her family. For someone so small and not so fearsome, she had always been too protective of them all.

It was her redeeming yet most fatal flaw.

She'd only just stood up with the intention of going up to the bar to refill her drink when her hand was caught in someone's tight grip and she was tugged the opposite way of her destination, ending up on the dance floor. Her eyes narrowed as she took in her captor, but Mycah only laughed at the threat in her expression. He was drunk, far too drunk for his footing to be steady as it usually was, but he didn't mind. The fast-paced music that blared from the speakers seemed to only fuel him more, sober him enough to keep her on the dance floor no matter how she tried to escape. She considered simply punching him in the gut, but she didn't, and finally realizing that she was out of options, she shoved her empty glass into an unsuspecting Renly Baratheon’s hand and allowed Mycah to pull her around the dance floor.

Mycah wasn't the most attractive man in the room, but he was without a doubt the most charismatic. Within no time there were lone dancers converging to their sides, tuning their one on one dance into a group affair until the entire dance floor was packed with bodies and she found herself reluctantly having fun. It was the first time in ages she'd found herself actually enjoying a social event, even if it was just her sister’s wedding.

It was made that much more fun when Gendry sidled up to her holding two beers.

She didn't leave the dance floor until the deejay announced the last song, which she happily shared with Robb, who had one arm was slung around their mother's shoulders and the other around Arya's, her arms around his waist and the other around Gendry's.

It was nice, she thought later as she stumbled into the backseat of a cab with Bran and Gendry, that her friend finally seemed to realize that he was involved.

He was her family as much as anyone.

\--------------------------------------------------------------

“My feet are numb,” he complained, falling against the wall of their apartment most ungraciously. His face was red from drink and dancing, his dress shirt unbuttoned and having come untucked long before the night had ended. His overlong hair was a mess, sticking out in every direction, and he looked tired. As drunk and as tired as she felt. “Might sleep on the floor here.”

“You're not sleeping on the floor,” she chided, holding onto the wall for support as she kicked her shoes from her sore feet, her legs too wobbly to keep her steady. Despite it, she managed to get her shoes off without any incident and lock the apartment door behind her, discarding her bag by the door. She'd trip over it in the morning, she was sure, but it didn't much matter to her just then.

He grunted and pushed off the wall, swaying on his feet and heading to the bathroom instead of saying another word. Arya sighed, she too needing to use the bathroom, but headed to her bedroom to change out of her dress while she waited. Once she had changed into an old shirt and a pair of pajama pants she'd stolen from Rickon the last time she'd ended up staying with him and Bran, she made her way out through the living room toward the bathroom. Gendry had his head leaning against the wall next to the door, and she tapped him on the arm and told him to go to bed before she walked inside and shut the door.

Even having had too much to drink, it didn't take her long to get through her nighttime routine. With her face washed and her hair combed through, her bladder relieved, she felt a hundred times better. Not quite so sober, but much more steady. And much more exhausted.

Gendry was still leaning against the wall when she left the bathroom, his eyes closed as if he intended on falling asleep against the wall, and she sighed. “C’mon, then,” she mumbled, taking one of his hands and slinging his arm around her shoulders. The jostling was enough for him to open his eyes and to elicit a groan from deep in his chest, “let's get you to bed.”

“Too far,” he mumbled in protest, and she couldn't help but chuckle. It was a whole five feet to his door, fifteen to his bed. Of course it was too far.

But she managed, even staying long enough to make sure that he got himself covered properly and that the trash can was close enough to his bed should he be sick in the night. She turned the lamp off and turned, but his hand was there on her wrist, his touch as gentle as his voice when he said:

“Stay.”

And she shouldn't, she knew that she shouldn't. She should go to her own bed and let him forget that he asked, and things would be somewhat normal come the daylight.

But even in the dark, his brilliant blue eyes were bright and pleading, and she didn't have enough fight in her to deny him.

So she stayed, crawling over him and crawling in beside him, her back against the wall.

His touch lingered on her wrist long after he'd fallen asleep, and she lay awake wondering why she could deny him everything but this.


End file.
